


to wayward winter

by aw marvel no (getoffmysheets)



Series: all the pleasures prove [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Bucky Barnes: Head Asskicker, Canon Disabled Character, Ethics? What Are Those?, F/M, Gen, Grant Ward is Canonically a Nazi, Jemma Simmons: Assistant Asskicker, Jemma is the Best, Synesthesia Like Woah, Torture, Undercover Jemma Simmons, Winter Soldier is a soft sweet good boy, but if you hurt Jemma, he's gonna turn your head into paste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/aw%20marvel%20no
Summary: Jemma Simmons meets the Winter Soldier, and he's simply a darling. Well, you know...apart from the blood.Can be read as a stand alone piece if you like canon-divergence.





	1. no mercy for the wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Details more of Jemma's background with Zima as described in "to live with thee".

Jemma Simmons did not know Bucky Barnes before she walked into that room. She knew of him, certainly – Daisy had such good things to say about him and Strike Team Delta. But she’d never seen him, except as a distant figure in fatigue pants and SHIELD tactical gear.

 

What she _did_ know as Sunil Bakshi led her into the high containment room is that she isn’t going to like what she finds in there. Of course, she’d read the briefing packet he brought her, with two thugs looking over her shoulder. He is never named in the intel – he is called “test subject” usually, or “Soldat”.

 

He was specially selected for the Winter Soldier project, chosen based on a psychological profile worked up by the original project leader, Arnim Zola. The young man is only twenty-eight, with well-developed leadership skills coupled to a strong drive to please others, and already proven talents in marksmanship and hand to hand combat. Strong, relentless, and fiercely loyal, he is the ideal candidate.

 

Unfortunately for them, after reading between the lines in the case study files, Jemma gathered that they’d fucked it up. The operation to acquire him had resulted in Soldat losing his left arm, which they’d had to replace with an enhanced cybernetic limb and later on, the torture and the brainwashing had only been limitedly effective in bringing their subject to compliance – because they’d cracked his mind in two.

 

The subject showed development of multiple personalities. Observers were not certain if it was limited to two different personas or if he’d splintered into more. The original personality, the one they’d selected so carefully for the project, had hidden, too broken by the torture to hold itself together. The second personality was…challenging.

 

He cowers in fear when he is taken on mission simulations, lashed out mindlessly at his handlers, and needed to be chained before he was transported anywhere.

 

 _Incompetents_ , Jemma thinks, clenching her teeth to avoid shouting at her watchers in rage. _Of course torturing a man isn’t going to get you the results you want! It’s just mindless, craven cruelty!_

 

But even so, she isn’t quite prepared for meeting ‘Soldat’.

 

Before Jemma was brought in, Soldat’s head handler was Brock Rumlow, and the man delighted in torturing his poor captive. Any hint of disobedience could result in Soldat being whipped, usually with heavy chains. Because he was so strong, he was restrained any time they had to transport him, and if he didn’t move quickly enough or stumbled over his footing, Rumlow hits him with a cattle prod.

 

“He’s barely more intelligent than an animal,” Bakshi says dismissively as they observe him from the loft above.

 

Below, Rumlow leads Soldat on a dog-chain, barking commands. The chain is rigged so that if he moves anywhere but where Rumlow has indicated, Soldat begins choking himself. On top of this, the chain is also designed to bind both arms behind his back, so he is unable to fight back. The black mask concealing his face is also a muzzle and when Rumlow strikes him with cattle prod, he keens in pain, but can’t open his mouth to scream. Jemma uses every skill Bobbi and Coulson instilled in her for this project to conceal her dismay and revulsion. This is what she is here for. This is what they wanted to know.

 

Bakshi continues “We’re expecting good things from you, Simmons. Your record while at SHIELD was quite intriguing. Zola hopes that you can bring this project’s success up to his expectations.”  

 

She literally must bite her tongue, pressing her incisors down on the tip to resist the urge to claw out his eyes. “Then I shall be sure to impress,” she replies confidently. “But if I’m to be his handler, then I required complete control of him. Rumlow has done what he can, but it’s clear that he is mostly unsuccessful at really controlling him. Perhaps Soldat requires…a woman’s touch.”

 

Bakshi tilts his head at her in consideration. James Barnes is gay, but she has no way of knowing that, of course. Perhaps she is right, though.

 

Barnes’ profile showed strong attachments to several of the women in his life – his deceased mother Winifred Barnes, his estranged younger sister Rebecca Barnes Proctor, his orientation trainer Barbara Morse, and his female teammate Natalia Romanova. He nods finally. Yes, perhaps this is better. Perhaps they have been trying to go about this the wrong way.

 

Another man, Rollins, goes through several forms and procedures with her – safety precautions, a basic routine, all of which Jemma listens to seriously, nods through, and immediately makes a resolution to completely ignore.

 

She has no doubts that she must do things that will horrify and disgust her. Jemma must now walk a fine line between conforming to this depravity and trying to reconcile with her own conscience, but she is drawing the line at actively making this man’s suffering any worse than it already is. He has already lost himself within his own mind – she sees no need to punish his body, too.

 

They are hosing him down when she is led to him.

 

No mercy for the wicked, it seems. They blast him with high-pressure hoses, filled with ice-cold water, a sensation that is likely similar to plunging into the Artic ocean at high speed. He is frightened, bewildered, clearly shivering and in pain from his walk around the training arena. The whites of his eyes show above the black mask that has become his muzzle and his pupils are pinpricks of fear.

 

And with that, Jemma Simmons has had all she can take.

 

“Get out,” she tells Rumlow, straightening her back and staring at him coldly in the eyes – she isn’t afraid to admit to herself that she’s imitating Melinda May, and even that thought gives her some small comfort.

 

He glances at her, and through his obvious annoyance, Rumlow feigns amusement. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

 

“I said _get out_ , you’re in my way.” Lifting her chin, managing to look down on him even as she has to look up, she crosses her arms over her chest, giving off an air of impatient anger.

 

“I don’t think so, kid.” How does a human being managed to be so condescending without someone kicking their testicles through their spinal cord? “He’s way too strong for you to handle by yourself.”

 

“No,” she drawls. “He’s too strong for _you_ to handle. I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

 

Bakshi calls to Rumlow “Ms. Simmons has been given full control of the project with Dr. Zola on to other things. Her orders regarding Soldat are to be obeyed.”

 

Rumlow sneers at her. “Fine, you little brat. Remember I told you so when he breaks your ribs open and stomps on your corpse.”

 

Jemma resists her urge to snarl something at him as he leaves, instead electing to maintain her cold, dignified silence.

 

When she is left alone with him, she begins to register the consequences of her actions. Soldat cowers in the opposite side of the room, hunched up in the one of the shower cubicles, still shivering and dripping water. They’ve stripped him of the dignity of clothing, but he still wears the muzzle and restraining lead.

 

As Jemma cautiously moves closer, she realizes to her disgust that Rumlow and his team don’t bother to actually _wash_ him. They only spray him down to remove any blood, sweat, or dirt, but none of them bothered to properly clean him in any way. His hair, dark and thick and beginning to hang over his face, is a tangled and oily mass from lack of maintenance.

 

Her soft heart breaks all over again when he whines and tries to shrink away from her as she slowly reaches out and removes the mask to find a once very handsome man beneath it. But his cheeks are more gaunt than healthy, and his face is covered in patchy stubble that he’s clearly scratched at frequently – in some places until he bled, judging by the scabs.

 

Enraging her further, with him naked, she can see signs of a nasty rash over his legs and around his sides, which probably means Rumlow’s team just dump water over him until he’s no longer visibly dirty and then make him put his clothes back on while they’re still wet.

 

Looking into the vague, haunted stare of his pale eyes, Jemma says “ _Vstante, pozhaluysta_.”

 

Silently, she sends up a word of thanks to Bobbi for her patience in giving her lessons in remedial Russian.

 

He obeys, slowly, straightening up on his long legs until he must look down to meet her eyes with his skittish, vacant gaze. _Barely more intelligent than an animal_.

 

Both the scientist and the humanist in Jemma refuse to accept that as the truth. Yeah, oddly when you treat someone like a dumb beast, they act like a dumb beast, but she refuses to believe that the only way she can get him to help her is to beat him bloody and drag him around on a leash.

 

“What a handsome face,” Jemma says gently, pitching her voice to a soothing lowness as she unhooks the terrifying contraption that is his choke-collar, feeling the whole mass of him tremble in front of her. “I bet you have a wife somewhere, right? Someone who would miss you, at least…They must be worried sick for you.”

 

She wants to cry watching him take in a deep, shaky breath, unhindered by the pressure of the collar on his throat for the first time in weeks. This mission will be more challenging than Jemma first expected – and she was expecting it to be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

 

Privately, she vows that she’ll bring the Soldat, whoever he is, back to his home. She is here for the information on the project and how this seemingly legal operation really runs, but Jemma silently promises this wayward soul that she will do everything in her power to bring him back to whatever family he has.

 

She continues to talk to him as though he may have some comprehension of what she’s saying – and perhaps some part of him does. His eyes track her movements, slowly growing less weary and more curious about Jemma. “I can’t call you Soldat,, and I’m a little afraid to ask for your real name.” She glances up at him, into the solid mass of him, with just those pale eyes staring out from the dark hair. Like frost, those eyes are. “ _Zima_. Zima will sound as though I’ve made your title into a name. Let’s go find you a real shower and some proper shampoo.”

 

They used this room to torture him, too, and she doesn’t want anything she does with him to remind him in any way of his experience with Rumlow and his team. This feels especially important considering it will be their first real interaction.

 

It’s then Jemma realizes that she sees no towels here and she absolutely loathes the thought of ordering him to get back in his clothes. Now that he’s standing and facing her, she sees that the rash that has only just begun at his legs and along his sides is a full-fledged blaze of scaly, painful-looking patches of bright red at the crease of his thigh and near his groin.

 

Idiots. Complete fucking idiots.

 

Jemma scowls. Besides being a horrible way to treat someone, this was just stupid incompetence! He would scratch at that – he probably already _has_ scratched at it – and it would only be a matter of time before the open wounds became infected, especially given Rumlow’s already poor levels of care. An infection could simply make him sick, but if he got staph, he could also die.

 

Right. A medicated cream too, then. An idea comes to her that makes Jemma bite her lip.

 

She could just walk him through the hall stark naked…

 

The ethical part of her – and the British part, if she’s honest – cringes away from this as option. Zima can’t consent to anything in his state, and she’d be throwing away any hint of his privacy.

 

A tiny voice that sounds like Daisy points out that Zima has nothing to be ashamed of, even accounting for his mistreatment.

 

And the larger, more practical part of her points out that any hint of privacy he had here was an illusion if he ever had it at all. Successfully managing to coax him to walk behind her through the halls without threats of violence or restraints would show everyone that not only can she do what Rumlow couldn’t, but Zima bows to her will without question. That he is naked will only hammer home the certainty that he is under her sway.

 

The voice in her head definitely sounds like Daisy now. _For she who controls the Winter Soldier is surely the baddest bitch in the room._

 

And Jemma Simmons wanted to live to fulfill her promise of engagement to Fitz, she would have to prove that she is the baddest bitch in _anywhere._

\---

She has kind eyes and her stare is velvet-like, warm and soft on Its skin. Her voice tastes caramel-sweet in Its mouth, fudgy and rich with a hint of salty contrast. Her eyes are the first warm thing It has known, her voice the only sweetness It’s ever tasted. The others have razorblade eyes, pinning It in place and slicing open Its skin. Their voices taste like ash. Charcoal. Bitter coffee grounds, gone to mold. Rotted meat. Vinegar. Overcooked vegetables.

 

She sets her gentle hand at the top of Thing’s head and says “ _Vy budete sledovat_ ” and It nods. Yes. Yes, It will obey. It will do anything she asks, anything for the sweetness and the warmth, so long as It can stay near her.

 

She smiles and it’s velvet on Its cheek, long grass on the fingertips. Innocence and softness.

 

It is obedient, and follows her serene stride, the way she calmly walks past the people that stare at them, gape, stumble around them in fear and horror. They all stare with their razor eyes, stare at It, and especially stare at her. She walks through them, speaking only to It. “ _Idi so mnoy._ Poor Zima! We’ll get you cleaned up _correctly_ and this time I’ll make sure you have a towel.” She laughs quietly. “As it is, you may be the envy of every man that’s seen you.”  

 

She is a princess, It decides. She must be.

 

It does not recall actually having _met_ a princess before, but It does not know what else to call such a regal, kind woman who spins webs of amber sugar for It with her laughter.

 

She takes It from the freezing room to a smaller, quieter room filled with white tiles. The water is softer here and feels like warm rain on the skin. _Printsessa_ pours some kind of fragrant cream into his hair and slowly works through it with the teeth of a long comb, before rinsing it out and starting over again. She hands him a cloth covered in more of the cream and talks him through the act of bathing.

 

“You need a haircut and a shave, but I don’t have the supplies for that. I don’t suppose you can apply the medicated cream for yourself?” she sighs.

 

“ _Eto budet sluzhit, printsessa_ ,” he replies meekly.

 

She looks startled. “Prin-? _Vy ne ‘eto’. Vashe imya Zima_.”

 

Zima.

 

Printsessa has given It a name. Perhaps now It will become a real person.


	2. Barnes, James Buchanan

In less than an hour, Jemma can give the Winter Soldier commands that he obeys.

 

In a day, he is following her around like a lost puppy.

 

In a week, he is focused and attentive to her will, watching her wherever she goes, silent when she tries to ask questions about his history, his memories, his family, but leaping to obey when he is given an order.

 

Zima is not stupid, Jemma decides. He clearly remembers which people have hurt him, who is kind to him, and he retains some things she teaches him. He does have a problem with language. His papers indicate that he originally spoke Romanian and English from birth, later studying multiple languages – though Russian was the only other one he had studied so extensively and was consequently the one he was most fluent in. However, he can’t seem to speak anything but Russian anymore. Jemma wonders if the other languages are being…safeguarded somehow, by the original personality.

 

To Zima’s credit, he may not be able to reply in kind, but he seems to understand anything she says no matter what language she uses. This is extremely fortunate, because Jemma’s knowledge of Russian was, well, _rushed_. Giving him orders in Russian feels more formal, however, so she studies up and makes certain that when the others are around, it is what she gives commands in. Let them think he’s as dumb as they believe – she will know the truth.

 

It is just after that first week that Bakshi and Rumlow come and check on her.

 

It’s a test, and she does not make the mistake of thinking it otherwise.

 

She knows before he even enters the room that Rumlow is here to make trouble for her – there can be no other reason for his presence. But she and Zima still give a performance to please.

 

_“Idi ko mne.”_

_“Zabrat eto.”_

_“Davat, davat.”_

_“Idi so mnoy.”_

_“Stoy tam.”_

 

He obeys flawlessly, going to Jemma’s side, picking up her phone, handing it to her, following her around the room, and standing still when she tells him to, always watching for the next command.

 

"Is that all?" Rumlow asks dismissively.

 

Jemma gives an internal shrug. _He asked for it_. " _Udar yego,_ " she commands, pointing at Rumlow. Zima raises his arm and Rumlow flinches. Just before Zima can make the blow connect, Jemma barks " _Ostanovka!"_

 

“That was indeed impressive,” Bakshi comments, watching Zima turn to her and bow his head expectantly. “What, may I ask, is he _doing,_ Ms. Simmons?”

 

Jemma pats his head, her throat burning. She should have tried to discourage this behavior, but instead she’s rewarded Zima every time he is affectionate toward her, trying to make this experience less traumatic for him. Perhaps she can still use it to their advantage. “A good dog deserves a reward, no, Mr. Bakshi?”

 

Ordinary human kindness was a foreign language to people like this, but a simple transaction of obedience-reward would serve to explain her actions away. Even if her stomach turns as she says it. _Get used to the feeling, Jemma._

 

Bakshi throws his head back as he laughs, too loud. She has to stop herself from reaching for Zima as he flinches back at the sound, trying despite his great size to hide behind her.

 

Rumlow sneers. “I see he’s tied to your apron strings now.”

 

Jemma graces him with a raised brow. “I’ve never worn an apron, Mr. Rumlow, nor do I intend to.”

 

“He follows you around like a lost puppy, what good does that do us?”

 

“He cannot do you any good at all if he does not listen when you speak!” she says sharply, letting some of her temper show. “Forgive me, Mr. Rumlow, but your methods, apart from being pointlessly cruel, were inefficient.”

 

Bakshi looks both curious and impressed that she has responded to Rumlow’s show of anger with her own. “How so, Ms. Simmons?”

 

“The psychological profile for his original personality should have given Mr. Rumlow all the tools he needed,” she answers coldly. “They may be separate personalities, but he was not born in a vacuum. Before the split, he liked to be needed and to please others. I simply presented a target for that need.”

 

Absently, Jemma pats his arm, rubbing over the skin of the flesh so that he can register the texture and warmth. “He isn’t so difficult to control, if you go about it the right way.”

 

Bakshi beams. “An excellent job, Ms. Simmons! I will prepare Soldat’s first field assignment. Expect to hear from me again in a few hours.”

 

As they leave, Jemma can tell from Rumlow’s expression that they haven’t seen the last of him, either, and a cold fear pierces through her heart – but it isn’t for own her own sake. Brock Rumlow is a true sadist, and Jemma has taken away his favorite plaything. She will have to watch him carefully.

\---

Zima’s first mission is successful.

 

There is blood, and people scream. The sounds taste like salt and copper and smoke, and these make It nauseous, but _Printsessa_ has ordered it to be so, and what she desires, It will give. Her voice is always in his ear, soft and welcome, and she is calm even when they scream.

 

Zima cannot feel Its left arm, but It knows that the shiny one is strong, strong enough that Zima makes them stop screaming so It won’t throw up, and then everything is quiet again.

 

Zima is out of breath and doesn’t know why. Their blood coats Zima, first sticky-warm, and then horribly cold.

 

When they are away from the razor-stares, _Printsessa_ takes It back to the room tiled in white and when the door is closed, she cries – until Zima thinks she will shakes apart, all her seams broken in two, like Zima. Like Zima and the other one, the one who hides in the dark. The other one cries, too. He cries, and he screams, but no one except Zima ever seems to hear it. Even _Printsessa_ , who is kind and who tries to make the pain better where part of It is missing, doesn’t hear him, and Zima doesn’t know what to do.

 

Zima still doesn’t know what to do – she cries, and cries, and cries and Zima hates it, the sound is like hooks going through Its skin, leaving It raw and bloody. It will do anything, kill anything, hurt anything, to fix it for her, but she won’t tell Zima what It should do.

 

So, It paces and _Printsessa_ cries.

\---

“I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, my god, what have I done?” Jemma sobs, squeezing his hand. Zima gazes back at her blankly. He is trusting and still covered in the blood of his victims, and Jemma can’t. She can’t take this another moment right now.

 

Zima may have killed them, but all of those people are dead because of her. She’d never taken a life before. She and Fitz were tech agents – they weren’t even issued real guns unless Coulson or May thought their lives were sufficiently endangered. As far as Jemma was concerned, she had killed them, not Zima.

 

Zima trusts her completely, as she now demonstrated for Rumlow’s entire team. He kills for her without the slightest of hesitations, does not even flinch when teams of soldiers approach him.

 

He is innocent, with the mind of a child. He trusts her, and Jemma is using that trust to make him kill for her. She watches Zima twitch and pace around and realizes that her distress is what’s agitating him. He’s a lot more sensitive than the others here would guess, and it means that he often picks up on her moods. Whenever Rumlow is around, she’s often annoyed and he’ll try to keep his distance.

 

He can hardly fail to miss that she’s been crying for almost twenty minutes. “Come here. Look at me, Zima,” she orders thickly and takes his face in her hands. “You are not the things you do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ask too much from you. I’m sorry you’ll never even know what a terrible thing I’ve done to you.”

 

She holds him and cries and tries to pull herself together for him. If she can’t make this work, Jemma has no doubt that Bakshi will dump her body in a hole her team will never find her in – and Zima will be terminated. Her promotion here was also a test in and of itself. They were expecting her to fail, see some of her skills, declare the project over, terminate Zima, and move her on to the next task.

 

But she was successful in bonding him to her, and now his survival depends on her being able to handle this.

 

Jemma wipes her eyes and pulls away, blood smeared down the front of her clothes. He makes a small, pleading whine of unhappiness and she runs her shaky hands through his thick hair. “I’m okay, I’m okay. Shhhh.”

\---

Zima thinks there may be two of Printsessa, like It and the other one.

 

When the razor-eyes are around, she stands very tall and straight and her voice is dark brown umber, dark forests filled with shadows and hidden caves. She gives It orders and touches him with short, brief movements.

 

When she is alone with Zima, her voice is dappled sunlight in trees and soft bubbling streams. She teaches Zima special things – how to wash, how to brush Its teeth, how to clean Its face off. Numbers and colors and shapes. How he must be gentle with the right hand, and even gentler with the left.

 

She tells Zima all about her family, who are called ‘agents’. Her voice ripples oddly when she talks about them. Zima wonders if she would rather be with them. “ _Zima mogu pozabotitsya o Zima_ ,” It tells her solemnly. “ _Printsesse ne nuzhno ostavatsya.”_

Printsessa frowns at Zima and looks upset. “Of course you can take care of yourself, Zima. I know that. Do you _want_ me to leave?”

 

_“Nyet. No vy byli by bezopasneye.”_

 

She kisses Zima’s palm and her smile is the saddest It has ever seen. “Don’t worry about my safety, Zima.”

\---

“Smile, lovie. Zima, like this, like me. Smile,” she instructs, pausing as he lifts his mouth. It’s more of a grimace than a smile, but it will serve her purposes.

 

She’s expecting to see a military picture, maybe special ops, but her image match software pings a file called “BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN”.

 

Jemma frowns, because something about that is ringing a tiny alarm bell in the back of her mind, but when she opens the file, that is definitely Zima looking back at her. Or rather, James.

 

“That’s you,” she tells him, pointing at the screen. “A handsome man, just like I always said. That’s your real name, Zima. James. James Buchanan Barnes.”

 

He whines violently, and cowers down, away from her. It’s as if the name has triggered some terrible memory for him. “It’s alright, you’re okay. Let’s look in your file and see if we can find some family for you I can contact when I finally figure out how to get you out of here.”

 

That’s when she notices that this is a SHIELD agent’s file, and sees the full name printed at the top of the agent’s profile.

 

BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN

“BUCKY”

 

And Jemma breathes “Oh, no.”

 

The place and date of birth are an exact match for the information stated on Zima's info packet. 

 

Daisy will be devastated, and Jemma doesn’t know what on earth she could possibly say to Clint and Natasha to make this better. Zima stares at her, trying to make himself look smaller, despite the improbability of that ever happening. Her face crumples as she looks at him, at his sad empty eyes and ragged haircut. “Oh, _Bucky_.”


	3. are you talking to me, darling?

Jemma must have written dozens of letters to each of them – mostly to Fitz, but she writes at least two for the rest of them as well. She burns all of them and it feels like loss each time, but later, after the discovery of Ward’s betrayal, she’s happy that she never sent them.

 

She would’ve been caught even sooner if she had.

 

Ward ends up being the reason that she gets caught. He sees her, you see, from the upper mezzanine, while doing practice drills with Zima. He sees her and goes straight back to Bakshi and tells him that he is absolutely certain there’s a traitor among his number.

 

They have her for three days, and much as they torture her it’s nothing compared to the knowledge in the back of her mind that Rumlow is taking every ounce of his frustration out on Zima right this very minute.

 

She is dragged into SHIELD main headquarters during the coup – Jemma is a technician and one of the best they ever had, despite Daisy being the hacker in their group, Bakshi is smart enough to know that she can figure it out if she absolutely has to.

 

And she really, absolutely has to.

 

Bakshi’s manicured fingernails dig into the back of her neck as he drags her through the center atrium. Around them, people scramble – either basic comms or tech agents and office workers trying to flee the building or loyal SHIELD agents attempting to apprehend their traitorous counterparts. “Unfortunately, I will have to get rid of the monstrosity that loves you so much. You haven’t left me with any other choice there – he only listens to you. But there are many ways to die, Ms. Simmons, and some of them can take a long, long time. It’s your choice – you can let your hulking gorilla suffer or I can kill him quickly.”

 

“His _name_ is Zima,” she growls, clenching her fists. “And most of your second-rate agents piss themselves just having to _look_ at him!”

 

One of the false agents escorting them scoffs and Jemma sneers “You wouldn’t be so brave-”

 

She is going to say “ _if he were here right now_ ” when the see-through glass of the atrium ceiling above them crashes open, glass raining down around them.

 

Jemma uses the distraction of the others to knee the mouthy agent in the groin and hooks her fingers into his eye sockets, cringing as she internally chants ‘just like grapes, just like grapes!’, the way Bobbi explained it to her. He goes down howling and Jemma turns to see what is actually going around her.

 

Her dear, faithful Zima spotted Jemma through the ceiling and decided to escape his least favorite handler in the most expedient way possible. And now that Zima has slipped his leash…he doesn’t seem to like what he sees. She’s sent him out to murder people with more pleasant expressions.

 

Baring all his teeth at Bakshi, Zima snarls “ _Vy povredili printsessu!”_

 

Her stomach drops. Oh dear.

\---

The oozing man has hurt the Printsessa.

 

Zima…Zima will hurt the oozing man.

 

It’s the first time that Zima can recall hurting something because It wants to, rather than being required to by someone else.

 

Zima likes it. Zima likes it very much – probably that is bad.

 

It takes the oozing man’s head and smears it red, red, red, all over the marble floors. He is still oozing, but at least now he is bright and beautiful.

 

And he doesn’t talk anymore, which Zima particularly likes.

 

Printsessa says “Oh. My. _God_!” in a voice that fills Its mouth with bile.

 

There are two men left – one begins running away, and the other shoves Printsessa into a wall before trying to follow. Zima crashes through the water to grab him by the arm, but It forgets how strong It is, and the whole thing comes off. Zima can hear Printsessa’s horrified gasp behind It, but he must get the last man – he can hurt her, and this means It must stop him.

 

Zima follows him, and It can hear the Printsessa’s voice calling behind him.

 

It hears the sound of a bullet as It wanders through the halls, and when it reaches the bottom of a staircase, there is a man standing at the top.

 

He is wearing a mask like Death, but when he pulls the mask down, Zima realizes that he is An Angel.

 

He must be – Zima has never seen anyone like him. His hair and long eyelashes are Sunlight, his eyes are the Sky, and his voice lights his pale skin with shimmering light. Zima loves the way it tastes – sweet and creamy, like coconut, but with a sharp tartness, too, like lemons. The sound shimmers like the Angel’s skin, like a beautiful pearl. He asks for someone called “Agent Barnes” but It is called Zima.

 

Zima realizes that he cannot be an angel. He has no wings. A star, perhaps? It has never seen someone who glows with their own light – a star is the only thing that would explain it to Zima. _“Tu es blesse, grand-homme. Me comprenez-vous?”_

_“En attente de la prochaine commande.”_ Zima tilts its head. Printsessa would be safer if It were not around. Perhaps the Star will allow It to serve. _“Puis-je vous servir, etoile?”_

 

“Oh my.” The Star blinks his long eyelashes. Zima likes the roses in his cheeks – It would like to feel them with Its fingertips. But that is not acceptable. People do not like Zima touching them. Zima is Other. Zima is made wrong, and they can tell. _“Est-ce que tu me parles, mon cheri?”_

_“Oui, je te parle.”_ Zima likes the way his eyelashes flutter, like the smooth curve of his neck. It doesn’t have words like ‘longing’, like ‘hope’, but It feels them all the same. Surely, surely a creature this beautiful wouldn’t hurt It. Surely, like the Printsessa, the Star is filled with kindness. _“Est-ce que je peux faire quelque chose pour vous, etoile?”_

 

Zima doesn’t know why the Star’s smile makes Its heart beat so quickly – It just knows that It would do anything to keep it there. He touches Zima's face gently, murmuring in his sweet-tart purr _“On va voir.”_

\---

Jemma should go after Zima, but her whole body has gone numb. She-she can’t look at Bakshi, and she can’t look at the agent she put on the ground. Zima left Bakshi’s head a smear of blood on the marble floor, and the other agent went into shock and died within moments.

 

She is there, frozen in place when she hears him. “JEMMA!”

 

Her shaky legs go weak and Jemma finds herself sobbing as she slides down a wall, croaking “Fitz!”

 

She sees his white, anxious face, and for the first time in ten weeks, Jemma thinks that she will be okay.

 

Holding her tight, Fitz speaks into his comms unit. “I found her. Agent Fitz, atrium level – I’ve recovered Agent Simmons.”

 

Her blood freezes in her veins as sees who wait for them over Fitz’s shoulder. “Not for long.”

 

She can see that Fitz is confused, but she has no time to warn him – Ward’s hand closes around her throat and he throws her into the water.

\---

Jemma hears the gunshot, and she thinks that Zima has once again come back to save her. Even when she opens her eyes, for moment she still believes that it’s Zima. Their eyes are blue, too, but Zima’s eyes are pale and vague, and they never burn with such intensity of focus. She sees those scorching eyes and knows that something isn’t right, and she cries out for Fitz. But then the cloth is placed over her mouth with slender hands, and Jemma is forced to sleep again.

 

She did believe it was woman – those long eyelashes, those slender hands. She should’ve remembered how deep the voice was that hushed her as she lost consciousness.


End file.
